A Study in Strings
by CptGoodGirl
Summary: John meets Sherlock at a Regimental Ball, where Sherlock is playing. He's immediately drawn in. This is mostly to make up for my extra angsty fic. Happy fluff, pwp and yay!


Regimental balls were boring. It was official. Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers was bored beyond words. The ballroom was filled with officers with their wives and partners, all dressed to the nines, with the officers in their finest Number One uniform, and everyone else in white tie. Medals gleamed on every chest, and John was no exception. He hated wearing dress uniform, and his medals felt like an alien weight. He much preferred to be in working uniform, it was more comfortable and practical and it made John feel ready for anything. H scanned the room, automatically taking in all the entrance and exit points, and mentally working out the fastest routes out, should they be needed. It was an automatic response. He told himself that it was unnecessary. It made no difference. John took a sip from the glass of champagne in his hand, trying not to pull a face; it had never been one of his favourite drinks.

A hand on his shoulder made him start, although he managed not to jump too much, wouldn't do to let anyone see that. He turned to find a pretty young captain from another battalion. Her names was Sarah Sawyer, she was a medical officer like him and they'd been thrown together at the banquet earlier. She was pretty in a plain way, and her mousy hair was down around her shoulders.

"Hi John, having fun?" Sarah smiled.

"Is it that obvious?" John grinned back.

"I've seen people having a better time in Helmand." She affirmed.

John stifled a laugh. She was funny, and obviously flirting. If he wanted to, he had no doubt that she would go home with him, all he had to do was ask. But he didn't want to. She was his perfect type and he wasn't interested at all. Since his medical discharge and subsequent return to London, he had no interest in forming any type of relationship. People were a liability, and they might see how poorly he was coping with civilian life. He gripped the handle of his walking stick tightly.

"So, John. Would you like to get out of here?" Sarah asked, her voice low.

"Sarah… I don't think that's a good idea. I…"

"It's ok, John! I had to ask. Here's my card, call me if you change your mind."

She pressed the rectangle of card into his hand, flashed a smile a melted away into the throng of people. John was relieved she'd been kind about his reluctance. He moved over to a table at the edge of the room, next to a small raised area, where he assumed the musicians would be playing shortly. He sat heavily in the chair and propped his stick up against the table. He scanned the room again, looking for anyone he would be interested in talking too. He'd already been quizzed numerous times about the events that led to his war hero status and his injury. He didn't really want to talk about it anymore.

Half an hour later, John had taken refuge outside of the ballroom. Leaning against the wall and breathing in the fresh air. He had spoken to a couple of acquaintances, but had finally begin to feel too uncomfortable in the crowd. He looked up at the few stars bright enough to penetrate the smog of London, then closed his eyes and enjoyed the silence. He heard the door close, and the sound of a lighter, then the smell of cigarette smoke assaulted his senses. Opening his eyes, he turned to look at the interloper to his reverie. It was a tall man, dressed smartly in a black suit and sporting a mop of curly dark hair. He had a pale angular face, with prominent cheekbones. His blue-green eyes were almond shaped, and he looked John straight in the eye, before dragging his eyes down the length of John's body, and up again. John began to feel himself blush under the intense gaze of the stranger.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He intoned.

The baritone voice that came from the man surprised John. Why had he asked that?

"Sorry?"

"I said, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan, how did you…. Why?"

"You're in dress uniform, obviously an army captain, medical officer. You've been injured, you're carrying a walking stick, but you don't mind standing as you're out here rather than sitting down inside. There's a purple heart on your chest as well as a military cross and the George cross. That establishes you as a war hero. When I came out you checked to see if I was alone, if I was carrying weapons, and the easiest escape routes. So you've been discharged recently, you still feel like you're in warzone. Where could an officer such as yourself come by injuries in the last year or so? Afghanistan or Iraq." The man took a drag from his cigarette, and blew a smoke ring into the sky.

"Christ. That was…" John's couldn't think of a word.

The stranger appeared to steel himself, as if expecting an unpleasant response.

"Amazing!" John finished.

The man's eye's opened wide, clearly shocked, then he quickly schooled his face into neutrality.

"That's not what people usually say." He grinned.

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

John laughed. He could see how some people could take offence at being deconstructed like that by a man you knew nothing about. It was disconcerting, but incredible.

"I bet you've been punched a few times haven't you?"

"It happens." The man laughed and flicked his cigarette butt into the bin. He looked intently at John, as if trying to read his thoughts. He probably could, clever bugger.

"So what are you doing here? No offence, but you don't look like you've served."

"You'll see soon enough, Captain." The man put emphasis on the last word, his eyes dropping to John's lips. John took an unconscious step forwards. This man was electrifying. He licked his lips.

Suddenly, the man turned on his heel, swung the door open and vanished through it. Then, a second later he popped his head around it.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure to meet you, Captain."

The way he said "Captain" resonated in John's stomach. He put so much emphasis and meaning behind it that John couldn't respond, and Sherlock Holmes vanished back into the building.

John leaned back against the wall and let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. That man was magnetic, he had to stop himself from following after Sherlock. Sherlock, the name suited him perfectly. It was unusual and held your attention. John hadn't felt attraction like that to anybody for a long time.

Once John was back inside, he found himself an empty table near the stage, sat down and scanned the room for Sherlock. A voice came over the PA system, announcing that the music would be starting shortly. Everyone found a seat as the lights dimmed and a spotlight lit up the stage. A man walked up the steps, violin in hand. He stepped into the pool of light, and John instantly recognised him as Sherlock. He hadn't been expecting that. Sherlock inclined his head slightly, the room fell silent and he put his bow to the strings.

For the next half hour, John was entranced by Sherlock. He moved with the violin in a way that John had never seen before, and put so much emotion into his playing. John had no idea what the music was, only that it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard, and that Sherlock was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It was all he could do not to sit and gape at the man on the stage. Sherlock took his bow to thunderous applause, and vanished down the steps. He was gone. John wanted to go after him, but had no idea where to look for him. It was ridiculous anyway. The man was easily eight years younger than him, and wouldn't be interested in him. John was an injured ex-soldier, who lived in a bedsit and slept with a gun under his pillow. Hardly in demand with anyone. John sighed and settled back to watch whoever was playing next. He knew that nothing could top Sherlock's playing.

He sat through the harpist, trying to put Sherlock from his mind. Unable to do so, John decided to head home, he got up and made his way in-between the tables and had just reached the foyer when Sherlock Holmes appeared from nowhere and walked right up to him.

"Captain, may I borrow your phone?" He asked.

John found himself fishing it out of his pocket without a second thought. He handed it over and Sherlock took it from him. Their fingers brushed as he did so, and Sherlock's hand seemed to linger. John felt like a school boy with a crush. Sherlock typed frantically for a minute, then handed the phone back.

"Thank you, Captain Watson."

John couldn't guess how Sherlock knew his surname, but he wasn't surprised. He was however, slightly surprised when Sherlock turned on his heel and left abruptly. Without as much as a thank you. John shook himself. He couldn't swoon after a man he knew nothing about. As he left the building he forced himself not to look for Sherlock, instead checking his phone to see what Sherlock had sent. There was one text

**Have the memory stick. Dovonosky as thought. You can stop comfort eating now. – SH**

It made no sense to John. That hadn't taken a minute to write. He checked his contacts and found a new entry, labelled "SH". Well then. John smiled as he stared at the number. Interesting.


End file.
